


summer in winter

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fever, Fever Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s summer. It seems impossible but Jon knows it’s summer now. It couldn’t be anything but. No matter that the last thing he remembers is white and cold, with snow that had a way of finding every gap and crack in his furs and boots; now the sun seems so high and bright that it glows red behind his eyelids even when he squeezes them shut. Salt sweat on his lips, his skin prickling tight and hot, blood rushing thin in his ears. And Ygritte. Ygritte at his side, hotter than sweat and sun, hotter than Jon’s dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer in winter

It’s summer. It seems impossible but Jon knows it’s summer now. It couldn’t be anything but. No matter that the last thing he remembers is white and cold, with snow that had a way of finding every gap and crack in his furs and boots; now the sun seems so high and bright that it glows red behind his eyelids even when he squeezes them shut. Salt sweat on his lips, his skin prickling tight and hot, blood rushing thin in his ears. And Ygritte. Ygritte at his side, hotter than sweat and sun, hotter than Jon’s dreams.

He’s never seen her bare in sunlight before. Her skin is as white as the snow that surrounded her when he saw her last; it glows in the sun now, like white flame, feeling near as hot to his touch. Have his hands multiplied? They seem to be everywhere at once, inscribing the arc of her ribs, counting the knobs of her vertebrae in her still-too-skinny back, following the path of blue-blood veins under snow-pale skin. He touches the crease of her elbows, her knees, her thighs. Her fingers in his hair clutch and tug, she pushes him to be rough but he holds off, wanting to show her the tenderness he feels, the tenderness that even her arrow in his flesh couldn’t drive out.

Jon knows her taste now. The first touch of his tongue between her thighs has him groaning with sweet remembrance at her flavor, at the silky texture of her skin, the wet slip of her response. She is standing, she is sitting, she lies on her back and digs one heel into the span of his back and pulls his mouth against her rocking hips with careless hands. He licks at her, laps and tastes, feels her foot flex and drum at his back in concert with the movement of his tongue.

He knows her patterns near as well as he knows her taste. Small first, little quakes that ripple through her with little cries. One then two. Then big, her body stiffening, her hips pressing up towards his mouth until she is a drawn bow, shoulders pressed to the ground and cunt pressed to his mouth, straining and reaching and wanting. He knows just how far to take her, how much she can take. He knows just when to draw back and leave her quivering on the edge of a knife, begging him, pleading him, promising him the moon if he just won’t stop, don’t ever stop, Jon Snow.

Snow. There was so much snow and now it’s gone. How can she be so warm? How can his blood boil so? How can she be so hot on his hands and lips and tongue and body when she’s gone, when she’d turned as cold towards him as all that snow that he’d ridden through and only looked back a hundred times.

“The fever’s not breaking,” he hears a voice say. A voice he knows. A voice from another life. Ygritte strains towards his mouth, speaking with Sam’s voice and then her own, saying, “Bring more snow, Jon Snow, you know nothing, Jon Snow, don’t leave me this way, don’t oh don’t.” He tries to say her name, but words prove stubborn and uncooperative. He has no way to tell her of his regret. There’s no way to tell her he’ll want her forever. No way but to sink deeper into his dream where he can turn face against her leg once more, as he’s done so many times – so many and yet so few, so painfully few - to press open-mouthed kisses to the inside of her thigh, to say, “Sweet girl,” against her skin. “Kissed by fire,” the fire of her hair, the fire of the freckles that dot her skin, the fire of her cheeks and knees and belly where the blood rushes hot, the fire in Jon’s head that makes it summer in winter.

“Come on, Jon,” Sam’s voice says close to Jon’s ear. The icy cold weight of a compress cover’s Jon’s forehead and it drives Ygritte away, takes her to some place Jon can’t reach, a place too far away to find, even in the depths of the heavy sleep that finally claims him.


End file.
